Book of Days 4 Turning Points
by WriterJC
Summary: STORY COMPLETE Steve is well on the road to recovery. What does the future hold? Picks up a couple months after story 3


Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to CBS/Viacom and other associated copyright holders. I'm just borrowing them for a little fictional mayhem. 

Rating: G - no language, nothing graphic, just a bit of angst

Status: Complete 

**Spoiler Warning**: "Retribution"

**Author's Note:** This story picks up a short time after story #3. I believe at this point, the stories still stand alone. However, they flow better if read in order. Stories 1 - 3 are available on this site under my screen name. 

**B O O K  -  O F  -  D A Y S :**

**Turning Points**

Steve padded out of his room toward the kitchen in just his stocking feet and a pair of Levi's Saddleman Boot Jeans. He reached a hand toward his lower back where the tag moved irritatingly against his skin. When he walked past the dining room table, Carol looked up from her homework and whistled at him. He shot her a quelling look. 

"Carol. That isn't very ladylike." His mother's voice traveled up from the kitchen in his sister's direction. Steve followed up with a laughing look at Carol, which she responded to by sticking out her tongue. 

"Yes, Mom," Carol said for her mother's benefit. 

Kathryn appeared in front of Steve before he had an opportunity to clear his face of the torment he was meting out to his sister, and he quickly rearranged his expression into one of innocence. 

"Don't even try it," his mother said, smiling all the same. "I'm not buying. Now, turn around and let me see how those jeans fit." 

Steve was mildly embarrassed, but did as his mother asked. She'd brought the denim pants home after a recent shopping trip, and he loved them, thinking that they would be great with the new boots he'd gotten a couple of weeks earlier. 

"They look a little snug," Kathryn commented, sounding pleased. 

"Snug?" Steve asked, startled. 

"Yeah, you're getting fat, _big brother," Carol piped up from the table. _

"No he isn't," Kathryn admonished. "He's just filling out a bit, which is a wonderful thing. I think I'll just take this pair back and get a size larger. These will never survive a go in the washer. Would you like the same brand?" 

"Yes, that would be great," Steve replied. 

"Good. Just put them back in the bag and leave them in here on the counter and I'll take care of them." 

Steve smiled agreeably and headed back to his room. As he peeled carefully out of the pants, he thought he heard the sound of the front door opening. He glanced toward the clock at his bedside. His dad was home a little later than usual. It reminded Steve that Mark had made it a point of arriving home by 5:00 p.m. every day since he had returned home from 'Nam. 

He remembered how tough those first few weeks had been, and not just because of the physical things that he was dealing with. But emotionally, too. He just couldn't seem to keep his mind level about things. Sometimes, small disagreements would cause him to become unaccountably upset, and other, larger issues, just didn't seem to faze him at all. But over time, surrounded by his family, things had settled. Some days, life seemed almost back to normal. His leg only gave twinges when he overdid it, and he no longer needed to use crutches or a cane to get around.  

The doctors did still suggest that he continue to walk to continue to strengthen the muscles that had been damaged. He much preferred that activity to the physical therapy. So, every evening while his mom made dinner and Carol did her homework, he and his dad would walk along the beach. 

Having slipped his old pants back on as well as a pair of dirty white converse, he grabbed up the bag containing the jeans and headed back toward the kitchen. Carol had abandoned her post at the table though books were still spread across the surface. He rounded the corner toward the steps leading down into the kitchen, surprised at the lack of sound coming from that area. 

He found his mom with both arms braced against the counter, and her head hanging low between her shoulders. A worried frown immediately marred his brow. 

"Mom? You okay?" He quickly settled the shopping bag on the counter and approached. 

Kathryn looked up and smiled warmly in his direction. "I'm fine, Steve. Just tired." 

Steve's frown deepened as he noticed the tired lines in her face. "Would you like me to finish up the cooking? I can walk after dinner." 

"No, that's quite all right. If there's one thing that I love to do, it's to prepare a meal for my family." She smiled at him with her special sparkle. 

"An edible meal," a voice spoke up from behind him, interrupting the moment. He turned to see that Carol had returned. 

"Maybe Carol can help you cook . . . " Steve suggested, shooting the girl a mischievous glare. "She needs all the help she can get, especially if she's going to get some poor schnook to marry her." 

A wadded up piece of paper was flung in his direction, narrowly missing the side of his head. He would have retaliated in word, if not in deed, but his father appeared. 

"Ready, Steve?" 

*~* ~*~ *~*

Mark followed his son down the back steps and out toward the beach, noting the ease with which the younger man navigated the short flight. He smiled. A few weeks ago there had been a slight limp, and all steps were taken with caution. Today, Steve practically skipped down them, the way that he used to. Mark looked up when Steve stopped walking and turned toward him. 

"What, Dad?" the younger man asked, curiosity marring his brow. 

"Oh, nothing," Mark continued to smile as Steve brushed his hair away from his face. Gone was the Army crew cut. "I was just noticing how much easier you're getting around." 

"I almost feel like my old self again." The sun shone down on him, reflecting off of tanned skin and a boyishly exuberant smile. He looked like he belonged out there among the sand and the waves, young and carefree. 

But Mark knew things could change. He remembered some previous setbacks. Especially when one of Steve's high school buddies had been returned home in a box. For nearly a week Steve hadn't wanted to leave the house. And then, one day, something changed all that. He'd thrown himself into his physical therapy routines almost ferociously. From then on, he'd made steady progress. 

Mark had never been able to discover what it was that had changed him, and he wasn't sure that he cared, given the results. Steve was completely Steve again, and that's all that mattered. He decided that perhaps it was time to broach the subject that he had been putting off for the past four months. 

Their walks in the past had begun with discussions about things that happened during the day, or other generalities before lapsing into silence. Mark admitted that in the early days of their walks the quiet stretches had been mildly strained, but over time they had come to be comfortable, even relaxing. 

"You know, school is going to be out soon, summer break will be here," he began, hoping to work his way around to what he wanted to talk about. 

Steve looked in his direction. "And you want me to think about going back to college in the fall?" 

"Well, since you mentioned it," Mark teased. "Yes, I do think you should." 

"I have been thinking about it, dad. And I do want to go back to school. I was thinking about maybe even talking to Coach Johansen, see what my chances are as a walk on." 

"Oh, really?" Mark's excitement was tinged with a hint of worry. That Steve was thinking of returning to college and playing football was yet another sign of his recovery. But he didn't want him to do too much too soon. Football could be an unforgiving sport. 

"You don't think it's too soon do you?" Steve asked him. 

Mark considered him for a moment, not wanting to disappoint him. "You've made remarkable progress. You have a few more months." 

They walked in silence for several moments while Mark let his memories wash over him. He had always hoped that Steve would follow in his footsteps and enter medical school. When he'd taken several necessary courses during his freshmen year, Mark had been quietly pleased. He looked forward to being there to 'hood' him when he graduated and became Dr. Steven Sloan.  

Mark looked toward him, taking in his profile as they continued along the packed sand.   "Remember how you used to want to be the team doctor for the Los Angeles Rams?" 

"Yeah, I remember." There was a smile in his voice. 

"You wanted to take care of the cheerleaders, too, if I recall?" 

Steve laughed a little embarrassed. "I . . . ." His voice trailed off as an aborted scream sounded above the ocean noises, shattering the moment. 

Mark barely had a chance to register what was going on back down the beach before Steve flew past him in a blur of motion. Beyond Steve, Mark saw a goateed young man on the opposite side of a dune. He was looking down toward the sand. The mound of dirt blocked Mark's view of what the young man was looking at, or what had caused Steve to take off so suddenly. But the young man with the goatee took notice of Steve, and with a startled expression turned on his heel and ran off in the opposite direction. 

"Steve!" Mark called to his son and began to run after him. But Steve didn't stop. Having reached the dune, he scrabbled over it and glanced downward on the opposite side. 

"Dad, she needs help!" Steve yelled in his direction, then continued on after the other man. 

"Steve, wait!" Mark tried. He wasn't sure that Steve should be pushing himself this way. Sure the leg had mostly healed, but the dense sand and the abrupt direction changes were going to make for some pain later on. But Steve didn't even break stride, and when Mark would have yelled again, he rounded the dune and saw a dark haired young woman lying in the sand. Her eyes were closed, and there was blood on the grainy dirt beside her where she had obviously struck her head on a piece of rock. A reddening impression was visible along the side of her face. 

Medical training immediately kicked in as Mark went to his knees beside her. He glanced up and around, and caught sight of his daughter looking worriedly down from the upper deck. 

"Carol! Call the police, and an ambulance!" He only saw the flash of her hair as she turned back toward the house. He didn't wait to be sure that she completed the move and entered. He had full confidence that she would go directly to her mother and that the needed officials would be contacted. 

From his stooped position, he couldn't follow the chase that Steve had involved himself in, and it disturbed him that his son had gone after a man who, though young, was obviously violent. After quickly establishing that the woman was breathing, he tore off his shirt, uncaring as the small buttons went flying off, and placed it against the wound at the side of her head. There was little more that he could do for her out here on the beach. 

Moving again to his feet, he was just in time to see Steve execute a perfect flying football tackle into the darker haired young man. They both went tumbling in the sand. Then, with a move that Mark was certain that he had never seen before outside of television, Steve maneuvered the man onto his stomach and forced his hands behind his back. He yelled something down to the man then, but Mark couldn't make out the words, just the angry tone of his son's voice. Steve then stood and, still holding the man's arms behind his back, forced him to walk back along the beach in Mark's direction. He couldn't miss the slight limp that Steve was exhibiting. 

Mark wasn't sure whether to be relieved or angry. Capturing the abusive man was either very heroic or very stupid, and his frazzled nerves weren't sure which way to go, so they vacillated somewhere in the middle. When he was sure that Steve had the man well in hand, he went back down to his knees near the girl. She was starting to come around. 

"Don't move," Mark encouraged, gently. "You've hit your head and I need you to remain still." 

The girl frowned and then moaned slightly and moved a hand up toward the damaged area of her head. "What . . . " 

"No, no. That needs to remain right there," Mark told her, preventing her hand from disturbing the shirt that he had pressed to the side of her head. 

"Who. . . ?" The girl's eyes opened a mere slit, and then a frown appeared over her brow in obvious discomfort from the light. She immediately closed them again. 

"My name is Mark Sloan. What's your name?" He wanted to get some idea of the degree of damage that may have been done and to focus her. 

"My name is Pamela Saunders." 

"Good. Pamela, I'm a doctor. My family lives here at the beach. We've already called the police and ambulance. Help is on the way." 

The girl's eyes widened suddenly and her entire body seemed to jerk. "Michael! Where . . . ." She began to try to get up from the sand. It was obvious that she was afraid of this Michael individual. "I've got to . . . " 

"No, you need to remain still," Mark insisted. Then, "Is he the one who hit you?" He was sure that his tone showed his disapproval of the young man's actions. He had seen the results of such actions on occasion at the hospital. It sickened him then, and it sickened him now.  

"Yes," she answered. Though she had subsided and was lying as Mark had suggested, there was a distinct nervousness in the way that her eyes darted about them. Though he was certain that she couldn't see much more than sand and water, she continued to monitor the area as if worried that Michael would appear at any moment. Mark decided that he needed to prepare her for the fact that he would. 

"Listen, my son, Steve, is here with me, and we're not going to let anything happen to you. Do you understand?" 

She nodded slowly. 

"Good. Steve caught Michael trying to get away. He's tall and strong and he used to play football. He's not going to let that bully come anywhere near you, okay?"

There was the smallest hint of a smile. "Okay." 

"Good. Now, I'm just going to stand for a moment, you stay right here." With that Mark moved back to his feet and saw Steve approaching with his subdued prisoner stumbling along ahead of him. Looking very tall and responsible, Steve was gesturing toward someone. Mark turned and found that it was two uniformed policemen.  

Mark breathed a sigh of relief. The police officers moved off toward Steve. Stooping back down in the sand, Mark patted the young woman's shoulder and smiled. "Everything is going to be just fine." 

Some time later, the paramedics also arrived and carried Pamela across the sand on a stretcher. The policeman had taken Steve and Mark's statement, as well as Pamela's, then taken Michael Richards into custody. It turned out that one of the policeman who had responded was familiar with the young man's violent attitude toward women and had already issued a warning in the past.

As they watched the officers escort the prisoner along the sand toward the road, Mark turned toward Steve. The anger had worn off and pride had taken its place. It had always been in Steve's nature to protect others from bullies. "That was a brave thing you did, Steve," he said as started up the beach toward the house. Both Carol and Kathryn were on the deck looking on. 

Steve glanced a little sheepishly toward him. "I was just . . . trying to help," he managed, a bit lamely. 

"Yeah, you always were." Mark grinned, remembering other times, some a little more frightening, like the incident when he was six with the Superman costume.  Those were the same words that Steve had spoken then when he had been found on the ground with a broken leg and two broken ribs after attempting to fly out of the window to save Geoff Dalender.

Shaking off the memories, he looked over at Steve's noticeable limp. "How's the leg?" 

"Hurts a bit. I think I strained it." 

"I figured. You know your mom is going to be beside herself." 

"Yeah, you're probably right." 

"We're going to have to get it checked out to make her feel better." Mark failed to add that it would make him feel better, too. 

"That's okay, I don't mind." Steve replied. Mark thought he caught a slight breathlessness to his voice, and the limp was ever so slightly worse. He thought that Steve was hiding the fact that the pain had increased. 

"Here, why don't you lean on me?" Mark asked, moving closer to his son. "Just to make _me feel better," he added. _

"Sure, Dad." Steve grinned, and wrapped his arm about Mark's shoulder. Together they headed into the house as the sun began to set behind them. 

The End. 

End Notes: The incident that occurred when Steve was six years old with the Superman costume is referenced from the script to the episode "Retribution". I don't know if that part of the dialogue actually made it into what was aired. 

---------------------------------------

Stories so far: 

Book of Days 1 Coming Home

Book of Days 2 First Night

Book of Days 3 Healing

Book of Days 4 Turning Points


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